CHAPTER 23

PEACE SIGN IN THE DARK

Gold.

Ochako's hands had moved before her head could react. It moved before she could ask herself "why". It moved, and there it was: Ochako was one gold ring wealthier, and she hadn't even fully registered she had it in hand.

But her blankout wasn't for long. At once something coursed through her: confusion first of all, and so many questions. What was it? Whose was it? Why was it left there on the cavern floor where nobody who should possibly wear rings would walk at all? And, a fleeting one but pertinent none the less: Why her?

After confusion, came euphoria. The golden thing shone so brightly in her hands. So pretty. So mesmerizing. So promising. All of it was hers. All of the light, all of the warmth, all of the promise without shape yet doubtlessly there within the shape of a little ring. It was in her hands. She had found it; better keep it safe. It was only natural: Finder, keeper, right? Right?

But then Deku had to turn around and ask her what was wrong, and Ochako very nearly hyperventilated.

At once her mind jumped to some very dark places: Why would Deku ask me? He probably wants it too, doesn't he? The precipitous drop in trust had scared her, but only just.

And Ochako wasn't going to share.

In the darkness her hands had curled into a fist. Not that she would fight Deku, but- but if he had tried to

But then, fortunately, thankfully, wonderfully, Deku had let the matter drop. He only shrugged, and turned around - not that tearing his eyes from that gold was easy, mind, and Ochako's mind wandered to darker recesses still. He might be waiting until I let my guard down.

The thought nagged and nagged at her, almost as itchy as the desire to just look at that gold without a blink. It was hard enough to stuff the thing into the pocket, and harder still to think straight.

Now Deku had turned away. "Let's go," he said, and what choice did Ochako have but follow him?

Her blind footsteps took her into a tunnel too small, too cramped, too rugged, too uncomfortable. Less comforting still, was how her mind had cleared in the darkness, but only enough to start thinking.

Chief on her mind, of course, was, what could she do with this ring? Very good question, and a very grim one too. It was almost despairing to realize she wouldn't get to keep such a precious beauty forever, because she had happened to find it while inside a body not her own. Almost worth all the curses in the world.

Ochako shook her head. It doesn't matter. It's just a novelty, right? Right? I don't... I don't need it that much, surely?

At once another different thing awoke in her, as if part of her consciousness had gained sentience of its own. So vivid, she could hear that other Ochako speaking inside her ears with a voice sweeter than her tongue could ever manage.

You want to become a hero, right, Ochako? Remind yourself, my dear, why would you ever want to become a hero?

Ochako's step slowed in the dark.

That's right. How could she forget her six-year-old self pumping her fist and declare so loudly how she would go pro hero and help her parents earn a better living?

Exactly, whispered alt-Ochako. The Ring can give it to you. And so much more.

How?

Alt-Ochako didn't answer. But euphoria washed over Ochako again, and at once she could see... no, she could almost see, and it was so much crueler that way.

She saw herself wreathed in gold and light.

She saw herself on top of a high-rise she built.

She saw herself sitting and just knowing her accounts were swelling.

The mirage was only there for a second, yes, but it steeled Ochako's heart. That, and her own voice, now turned honey-sweet in her ear of ears.

All you need to do is keep it. Keep it. KEEP IT.

How?

Mischief welled up. Gears turned. Her mind was singularly focused. You can find a way. Can't you?

"Uraraka?"

He was whispering, but his voice was so frantic.

Say something.

She drew a stiff breath, full of the damp smell of lichens and caves never before lit. "Are we..." she said. "Are we there yet?"

It was a poor attempt: such was an immensely bratty and awkward response and not at all like her. But at once Deku squeezed her hand tight, and even with the knowledge that this wasn't her body Ochako could feel her cheeks flushing.

"Everything shall be all right," said Deku. "I'm sorry all of this happened to you... but please, please hang on with me just for a bit longer, would you?"

He looked at her in the eyes, and Ochako snapped out of her teenage-girl reverie. If not for the ring on top of her mind, she might well be reduced to a stammering wreck. As it happened, the way Deku looked at her now only soured the warm feeling in her and replaced it with ugly suspicion yet again.

The question: Why was he paying so much unwanted attention to her all of a sudden?

Ochako shuddered. Had he known? Why, of course he would! She was acting so oddly, so unlike herself – not entirely excusable, even by the fact that she wasn't in her own body. Deku was ever so observant: it wouldn't be him not to notice.

Say something that's like you.

"Yeah," she said. "I'll watch your back, Deku, so... just keep your eyes ahead, alright?"

The face Deku was wearing softened into a smile. "Yeah!" he said, and turned back around.

That's more like it.

For a second Ochako felt rightly disgusted with herself. This wasn't like her. Manipulating people wasn't like her. Hiding the acquisition of some ill-gotten gains definitely wasn't like her.

Her newfound euphoria did a very good job of drowning it out with visions of wealth and power, and how utterly amazing it would feel.

If you have all of this – all of this! Who needs such a thing as a raggedly little boy any more?

There was a sound akin to howling laughter deep inside her.

Isn't it good, my dear little Ochako?

Toshinori had arrived late.

Not too late, thank goodness, as to save lives: There were no villains blocking access to the metro track, and ripping a hole through several layers of concrete was child's play.

The good news was, the situation had resolved itself without him. The villains were nowhere in sight. Probably escaped in the chaos for whatever reason. Good – for them, and for the victims. The smoke in the tunnel made for a very bad place for a fight while innocent lives were on the line. He fanned the black cloud out through the opening, and dove straight towards the train.

Without wasting another moment to think Toshinori flexed and doubled down for business.

"It's all right! Because I am here!" he cried, and tore apart the train's chassis. Peals of Shouts and screams broke out at once: of relief, of jubilation, and not a few ones of pain. The victims were bruised and raggedly and weak from all the panic and the smoke, but they were alive and that was where he came in.

The next minute was a matter of routine. Dash in. Carry the wounded out. Widen the breach so the police and paramedic could jump straight into the tunnel. And, most importantly, never stop smiling even as his clock was ticking down.

"We'll handle the rest here!" cried one of the the paramedics. "Don't let them get away, sir!"

For just a blink Toshinori's smile faded, in its place a fierce, terrifying visage, of brows upturned and jaws taut.

"I'm on it."

His words were more like a growl, and off he went into the unlit part of the tunnel where the smoke was thickest. No mercy for the wicked.

It didn't take him very long: Soon the smog opened before him as his feet splashed up water from a very large puddle beneath. The air was abnormally cold and crisp, and the combination of dampness and smoke made his throat tingle.

It was then that Toshinori realized the bad news: the situation had resolved itself without him.

"Young Todoroki?"

Indeed, slumped next to the tunnel wall was young Todoroki Shouto, his face dark, his clothing covered in soot. Just a short distance from him stood a small pillar of ice – must have been a mountain before it melted.

Just a short distance from that – Toshinori could barely hold back a gasp – lay two dead bodies, charred black to the bone, virtually unrecognizable without forensic intervention.

Toshinori held back a cough. "What..." he began, "had happened here?"

Todoroki looked up."What..." His voice was hoarse. "... do you think?"

What did he think? What else was there to think? Here young Todoroki was sitting amid ash and melting ice, next to two dead bodies brutally murdered by flame. There were nobody else around. Even if he were to give Endeavor's son the benefit of the doubt, the law most definitely wouldn't.

Why? Why would young Todoroki do... this?

No, no, no, this wouldn't do. He wasn't there to make accusations or pass judgement. He was only a hero – a hero, and a teacher. And a teacher had to take care of his students.

So he crouched down to Todoroki's level, and made every effort to purge every frown on his face. "Listen to me, young Todoroki, breathe," he said. "You don't need to say anything. I'll- I'll ask. Just nod, or shake, alright?"

Todoroki's shoulders fell. Slowly, half-heartedly, he nodded.

Toshinori would take what cooperation he could get. "Good." He drew a nauseating breath full of the smell of burnt flesh. "Are they the villains?"

Nod.

"Is this your doing?"

Shake.

Toshinori was a breath away from shouting "Then who?" He managed to hold himself back just on time. Not helpful. Not helpful at all.

He didn't have time. And more importantly, he didn't have time.

Toshinori wiped his forehead. "Did the one responsible," he said. "Did he leave?"

Nod, again. Back to square one.

"I see," said Toshinori. "Listen, young Todoroki; I don't wish to do this at all." He sighed. "But I will have to hand you over to the police."

Todoroki didn't sound angry. More like... resigned. With a sigh. "You don't believe me."

Not false. Toshinori was trying his best to persuade himself to believe this young man, and failing. When you have to force yourself to believe because that's the morally right thing to do, then trust itself has already failed.

"It's a matter of principles." And due procedures. "If you really did nothing wrong, there's nothing to be afraid-"

Young Todoroki's eyes narrowed, and for just a short while, something flashed and flickered within them. Something suspiciously close to hatred. Toshinori would ask why, but this... well, this was neither the time nor the place.

But the vestige of hatred was just there for a split second. When Todoroki looked up, there was something burning cold in his eyes.

Defiance. And acceptance. A little of both. "Very well," he said. "I submit."

And just as his luck would have it, they didn't have to even wait. In the distance came the quick steps of so many boots. Into sight appeared a small team of policemen, carrying batons and cuffs and specialized restraining harnesses for quirk-users – unmeltable shackles and such likes.

"Mr. All Might!" the captain cried out. "Out and ready for the arrest, sir!"

Hardly had the word "arrest" leave his lips when his eyes chanced upon the sheer mess before them.

"Sir?" he said. Had it been a less professional or less serious setting he would have rubbed his eyes in disbelief. "W-what had happened here?"

"An act of fatal vigilantism," Toshinori said. "Apparently – apparently – these bodies belong to the villains. Call the forensics."

The three policeman stared at one another, then at the dead bodies, then back at the boy.

"Vigilantism?" said the captain. "But isn't that... Endeavor's son?"

One of them was just raising a finger at the boy when All Might threw them a very, very stern look.

"The answer is yes, and it doesn't matter. Not yet, anyway," he said. "Young Todoroki is..." His voice choked a little as bile and blood rose in his throat. "... is an important witness, not a suspect." He swallowed hard. "Not a suspect. Please take him away. And keep him safe."

Toshinori might not be a very eloquent speaker, but he could do euphemism. He wished. Not that the notion of euphemism would ever work on young Todoroki.

"What will happen to me?" he said. So cold. So emotionless. And yes, so defiant. Yet once the surface peeled off, Toshinori couldn't help but see fear behind the mask.

What could he have hated and feared so much?

"No harm," said Toshinori. "No harm if I have anything to say about it – you have to trust me, young Todoroki. Though I would advise you-" The words were so hard to spit out, and it wasn't even because of the blood in his mouth. "-not to say anything unless you really mean it."

He saw young Todoroki's lips trembling. For a couple seconds that felt like a century or two, no meaningful words left him. No meaningful words, except for a cold, impersonal "I understand."

Part of Toshinori was fearing the officers would cuff him. They didn't.

But he had no time to rejoice or relax just yet. He cleared his voice just as Todoroki was turning around.

"Oh, and... Young Todoroki, one last thing if you would indulge." he said. "Did young Midoriya happen to be with you?" Not the right time, but...

"Midoriya?" Toshinori had only blinked, and those heterochrome eyes had bored straight into him. For a blink of an eye the hatred intensified. "No." But just for a blink of an eye.

"Not even on the train?" Toshinori's voice raised without him realizing.

"No."

"Then where-"

Toshinori interrupted himself. Now that he thought of it – he'd received a text message earlier on in the day. A teachers' notice saying one of the Support students had been involved in an accident and therefore confined in the clinic until after school. He hadn't pay it much attention at first: the big interview of the day had blinded him, for one thing. For the other, he'd assured himself, it was Support. What could have possibly gone wrong?

Could it be...

He flicked his phone on, and quickly scrolled down the pertinent message.

Toshinori's fists trembled.

Hatsume Mei.

His heart sank. Suddenly everything added up. Midoriya wouldn't be out of the school unless Hatsume was... and she hadn't been.

He had been on a wild goose chase all along. The only boy he was out to save had been still at school all along. The same place under attack by a gang of villains. The same place that, by his sworn duty as a Hero and a teacher, he was supposed to check out first.

No time wallow in regret. Act, damn it, Toshinori!

"E-excuse me," he said, and accelerated like a wind towards the tunnel's exit.

Toshinori threw a glance at the clock-face on his phone. Seven minutes. His teeth ground.

I can make it.

"What do you mean we can't come in there now, elf?"

Nori's voice rang out in the night, and Gandalf thought at once every bit of misplaced hatred against the Noldor was being mustered all at once.

"I meant every word, master dwarf," said Glorfindel. "Foolish are those who challenge the goblins in their own lair without knowing what lies afoot."

Theirs wasn't a very good station for a debate of any sort. Their group was perched behind a boulder on the mountain path, where the footing was poor and space not so generously granted. Thorin was pacing around what little space he had atop the mountain pass, and Gandalf sympathized as he tried not to pace about himself.

Needless to say that wasn't a good place to stage a siege. Height. Footing. Narrow profile. The goblins had every advantage a defender could ask for, and then some. Not even with a small army would attacking goblins so entrenched be an easy sort of business, and particularly not at night. Gandalf shuddered: this was the same kind of terrain, indeed, that Turgon King of Gondolin had counted on to keep his secret place safe from the shadow of the First Age.

Here wasn't a very poor place for an army to make camp either, and that wasn't taking into consideration the goblin-fort in the distance. Most of the Noldorin army had stopped lower down the path where there was more room and less goblin-torches. A glance down the path once again made Gandalf silently sing praises for the discipline of the Calaquendi at war: they were standing there still, straight-backed yet hushed, and made not a one complaint.

Meanwhile, what were the dwarves doing? Debating among themselves whether they should send a search team into the cave just behind them – because Bilbo and Ori had been gone for far too long.

In hindsight, he should have thought something like this would happen. Bilbo Baggins was always meant to be the Company's problem-solver, and when the problem was water, it naturally was him to get some. For Bilbo he had little anxiety, because time and again 'dragons in a pinch' had proven less and less of an overstatement whenever the hobbit was concerned. No, his chiefest worry was of Master Ori, youngest of the Company and all but questionable as an adventurer.

The dwarves seemed to agree.

Now his brother was on a rampage. Roguish and of questionable honesty as he might be, Nori wasn't without an older brother's sense of duty. His face had turned to a ruddy shade under the moonlight, and he was knuckling his palm; quite likely imagining himself beating poor old Glorfindel into the mud.

"You can't just leave my brother in the mountain-deep!" he cried.

Gandalf was sympathetic – but only just. The other dwarves, less so.

"Um, no offense, Nori," said Kili. "But just maaaybe you should have considered accompanying them in the first place." On his side, Fili was nodding furiously. Bifur was less forgiving still: the Khuzdul tirade coming out of him sounded suspiciously like 'irresponsible wretch' if Gandalf's rudimentary understanding of their tongue could be trusted. Bofur, understandably, kept quiet in a corner, silently drinking his share of water that the elves brought.

"I. VOLUNTEERED!" he shouted. "But he wouldn't-"

"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE FOLLOWED!" roared Dori."YOU ARE HIS OLDER BROTHER!"

"Enough!" cried Thorin. "We've got already a fine piece of work here here without you rogues making a scene!" He sat down on a slab, and folded his arm in exasperation.

Balin was less argumentative. He looked to Glorfindel. "Master elf," he said, with uncharacteristic courtesy for a dwarf of Erebor of his Age. "We can't leave our fellows down there in a lair of goblins!"

"We are not," said Glorfindel.

There was a frown on his face, out of anxiousness, too, rather than annoyance. Belladonna Took had won herself more than a few friends among elves back in her days, Glorfindel among them. The lifetime friendship of elves, as it was, were wont to extend to kith and kin.

"All I am asking is time till the Sun rises. It should not be very long-"

And then disaster struck. A whistling noise of an arrow. A startled yelp. A filth-tipped arrow crudely fletched, pinned to the cliffside, just inches from the tip of Dwalin's nose.

Gandalf had no clear idea how. The dwarves arguing, or the gleam of the elves' arms just down the road, or even an unnatural sense for the presence of elves born from three Ages of enmity and hatred. But there it was: Alarum sounded. Gongs rang out. Horns blared. Black-speech hollers atop the high parapet. The goblins had found them.

Thorin cursed.

Bofur did the same, but in Khuzdul.

Glorfindel raised his horn. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel!" he cried. "To arms, ye once of the Golden Flower!" Around him rallied his brothers and sisters in arms, nobles of the Eldar clad in silver and blue and the colour of that old House of Gondolin long defunct yet not soon forgotten.

Then up the pass ran a squad of elves bearing bows of silver and ornate quivers – indeed as many as could fit the narrow footing. A cry of "Leithio i philinn!" rang out; elven arrows rose from the darkness. Black-feathered arrows rained down in return. Elf-shields tall and bright like true-silver in the moonlight shone – mithril it was indeed, last of Rivendell's arsenal to be forged from the goodwill of the folks of Moria ere Durin's Bane rose from the abyss.

Now Thorin's folks scurried behind the elven shield-wall. Balin and Dwalin, and Dori with gritted teeth, rallied around their king. Fili raised his own shield. Kili loosed arrows after arrows into the dark shapes far above and away. Nori and Bifur dove for shelter beneath the shield-wall. And... Bombur was rolling behind a rock.

Gandalf drew Glamdring from its jeweled sheath and turned towards the goblin rampart just as the crude wooden gate opened. A stream of goblins, snarling and gurgling, was pouring forth from the bowels of the mountain, their wicked blades gleamed darkly under their torches.

So began what would be known as the Battle of the High Pass – and it would indeed be one nasty business.

The tunnel had turned out to be a respectable maze of underground paths. Was it the work of goblins? Had it been naturally carved by time and seismic activities? Izuku didn't know, and frankly didn't care so much. He'd been turning left, and then right, and then back left again, each several times in quick succession. The light in the tunnel was dim: he felt a little like a dog, for he was now guided more by smell than sight at all.

Perhaps in another world, and perhaps if it had been Bilbo, and perhaps if he had received proper directions out, that which would have greeted him at the end of the tunnel would have been the glimmering light beyond a stone door left ajar. This, however, wasn't what met Midoriya Izuku: for he was so intent on following the trail of blood and stench, what he soon chanced upon wasn't an exit to the cave and all this gloom and darkness and unpleasant things.

No, it was a crude door of rotting wood. Opening that door took him to another door, more rotten and battered still. Orange light shone through the gaps between the planks. The unpleasant smell just got more rank and deathly, and it wasn't entirely attributable to the goblins' hygiene or lack thereof.

In the distance – above them, perhaps – sounds were echoing about the rocky walls. It shounded suspiciously like fighting: there were shouting and screaming, and of clashing of metal. No time for that! Escape first, everything else later!

Izuku turned to Uraraka. "Ready?"

She winked and nodded. "Whenever you are."

Izuku nodded back. Then he drew in a sharp breath, stood up straight, and kicked the door so hard it crashed against the wall.

There was exactly one goblin left in the room. It turned around just as the door flew open. "Intruder!" it cried with a voice that might well carry all over the tunnel. "Intruder in the Whip Room!"

There was only one thing Izuku could do. Bilbo might not have been the successor of One For All, but his fist, Izuku had found out, was quite hard enough. A single running punch knocked the goblin off its feet and into the opposing wall with a loud crack. It collapsed in a heap at the wall's foot, out cold.

At once Izuku swung his head around. "The door, Uraraka!"

"On it!"

Izuku availed himself of the short respite while Uraraka blocked the door behind them. He rubbed his chest and began to look around.

At once his hands fell to his side.

There was a reason the goblin had called the place "the Whip Room". It was a torture chamber, well-equipped with tools crooked and wicked. Whips, tongs and pliers lined the racks along the cave wall. On a table there were knives of rusty iron, as sharp as the material could permit, of so many different sizes and shapes. And yes, there were whips, too, both of iron chains and leather, and several ingeniously made lashes with tiny jagged blades attached to the business end.

The torture-master had left the room. Perhaps the commotion all about had had something to do with it. Not that his absence made the sight easier to stomach. If anything, it made the atrocity tenfold worse: because in the middle of the room there was a kind of torture rack Izuku had only seen in a history book. An occupied torture rack.

There across the rack lay a most pitiful and pitiable poor creature: dark and scraggly and misshapen and only vaguely humanoid, naked but for a loincloth caked with mud and blood both black and red. The creature was broken and bruised and bleeding from so many little cuts along its ash-grey skin. It seemed the goblins had been fully intending to rip him in half in the first place: now it was more like they were simply satisfied with leaving him here to bleed very, very slowly to death.

Truly the depravity and cruelty of goblins far exceeded most villains in fancy costumes.

With shaky steps Izuku approached the creature. "H-hello?" His voice cracked.

The creature's eyes bulged open. Those eyes, misty and pained, were impossible to look away from. "Precious... precious..." he muttered. "Give... to us..."

Izuku halted in his track. "Precious?" he asked.

"Precious, small, golden..." he said. "Round... Sparkling... Ours... Ours!" He craned its neck and tried to nod and shake, but failed miserably at both. "Will... save us... Precious... gives strength... Precious... Precious... give... back..."

If disgust had been in Izuku's mind at first (and who could have blamed him? The creature wasn't exactly pleasant to look at), now it was gone. The poor thing was delirious and dying, and so, so in need of being saved.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "But I can help you! Let's get you out of here, and then- and then we'll look for this 'precious' of yours, alright?"

The creature didn't seem to hear Izuku. "Precious... preci-" he said, and collapsed.

There was only one thing Izuku could do: he reached for the nearest sharp object – which happened to be a goblin blade, curved and bloody and grooved, and began hacking away at the cords tying the creature to the mechanism.

And then he heard Uraraka harrumphing behind him. "What are you doing, Deku?" She sounded cross – far crosser than she normally should be. "You aren't thinking about saving this... thing, are you?"

Izuku didn't look back. "Yes. Yes I will." This has never been a matter for debate. "Shouldn't be a problem. I can carry him on my back."

"Didn't you hear? That gob-goblin thing just alerted this whole place!"

"All the more reason to carry him along," said Izuku. "Do you think they'd let him live, hanging on the rack like this?"

"Sorry for asking," said Uraraka. "But why do you care?"

Izuku slowly turned around, and stared hard at Uraraka in Ori's flesh. Had fear and anxiousness and weirdness finally cracked her resolve? It was entirely possible, and if that had been the case, it might have well been his fault. But his fault or not, this much was unnegotiable.

"Why not?" he cried softly. "All Might would have saved him, wouldn't he? All Might would reach out and save everyone he can reach!"

"Oh, really?" Uraraka's voice seethed. "But even All Might can't save everyone!"

For just a second Izuku's fingers felt numb.

True.

Being a hero meant not being able to save literally everyone. Even the man himself had said as much. Heck, Izuku himself knew as much: he had known of the failure to save lives before the joy and relief of doing so. It was a hard and harrowing lesson, as fresh on his mind as the three Rangers' graves in the wilds. Had he forgotten it?

No, he had not. Perhaps being a hero didn't mean saving everyone that needed saving – or even being able to.

But...

"... but if I see someone I can save, right here in front of me, and I don't even try," he said. "what kind of hero would I be? What kind of hero would we be?"

Izuku didn't wait for Uraraka to answer. This was a journey he had to take, with or without her.

So he went back to his work. The cords were lean yet abnormally tough, and took some desperate sawing before they gave way. Then Izuku took a deep breath, and heaved the poor creature on his back. His nose wrinkled: the creature must have been as adverse to taking baths as Kacchan was adverse to weakness.

No matter. If he could save a life, what was a little stench to bear?

Bilbo cringed and jerked backwards.

The last sound he heard was Ori being flung against the wall hard. It was the sixth and seventh time – because expecting a broken chair to block a troll's punch was serious folly.

It was somewhere between discomforting and frightening to see Uraraka's body taking about as much blunt trauma to fell a herd of buffalo. It was infinitely more worrying and perplexing still to see Ori was getting up without fail.

Where did that vigour come from? Was it the endurance of dwarves, born from stone as they were, mixed with Miss Uraraka's own strength? Or was it something else? Bilbo wasn't the only one asking questions about such dwarvish tenacity: the villain's smirk had now soured and faded.

"W-why don't you stay down?"

"Durin's Folk. Do not. Stay down!" was Ori answer, breathless and defiant. Then he hurled himself again at the giant,

And then Bilbo realized just what he'd been doing: Ori had swiped his fingertip at himself just before impact. Or rather, Miss Uraraka's fingertips: and suddenly everything made sense. Smart.

"Such power is not a toy, indeed, Master Baggins!" exclaimed Ori, launching yet another assault. "As useful as a warhammer from the Iron Hill and a knee-long coat of mail, imagine that!"

"Well done, Master Ori!" was what Bilbo would have liked to say – and what the young dwarf deserved. But now was simply not the time.

Now Bilbo started looking around the classroom, chanting escape, escape, escape in his head. Which was a harder endeavour than it seemed at first. The troll-man had blocked the only entrance outside, and Ori's hostile reaction had destroyed any chance of a peaceful resolution.

They could jump out of the window again – but only if Ori cooperated, which he certainly wouldn't, and if the blue-skinned giant out there had been defeated, which he certainly hadn't been.

He could start hurling things – but again, only if Ori wasn't prancing around as he was

And Bilbo wasn't so keen on pulling an Izuku and charging the troll-man. No, that would be silly, daft, needlessly self-endangering and of doubtful effectiveness.

What would Izuku do?

The corner of his eyes caught a certain something flashing by the windows. Then there was a crash as loud as an ox-cart full of fragile dinnerware flipping over, that no glass window could entirely remove.

Ori halted in his track. So did the villain. "The hell?"

Bilbo stared out of the window. The first thing his eyes caught was a flash of blue and red and gold, having fallen straight out of the sky like a bolt of lightning.

"It's all right!" Bilbo had heard before he saw. "BECAUSE I AM HERE!"

Is that... All Might?

Indeed it was the one and only All Might, in his glory of blue and red and yellow, making a most majestic entry while nailing the blue-skinned villain in the face. The creature flew back half the yard – and U.A. had a very large yard – until he hit a segment of the U.A. Barrier clear cross the field.

There had indeed never once before that Bilbo was happier, or more excited, to see All Might striding into the fore: he looked as majestic, indeed, as a King of Arnor of old, told in books and myths, each measured step following the last.

Inside the classroom, the villain dropped his hand by his side, his face overtaken by horror.

"A-All Might is here?" The troll-man's armored kneecaps shuddered. "But... but this isn't supposed to..." His knuckles trembled. "Damn you, Kurogiri! You promised..."

"Looking to go somewhere?" cried Ori. He wiped his bloody lip, but there was a triumphant smile across Uraraka's face he wore.

"Eh, heh, heh, sorry, kiddos-" The troll-man coughed. Slowly, heavily and with shaken steps he swing back towards Ori. "-but I do suppose it's time to leave..."

Suddenly he reached out his enormous arm and dove for Ori with a grabbing motion.

Equally suddenly, Ori... rolled aside?

"Believe what you will," he shouted. "But we sons of Durin do have experience dealing with trolls like you!"

He had ducked just under those enormous, muscular arms, and now was well behind the troll-man; and threw a riposte at the troll-man's lower calf. The broken chair went smack against the back of the villain's leg. Granted, the blow didn't do all that much, but it did draw out a yelp and a jerk from a giant.

"Y-you crazy girl!"

More like crazy dwarf, but other than that Bilbo would concur. Ori had always been a little not quite right in the head by both dwarven and respectable hobbit standard alike. Whether or not Uraraka's body and quirk had added to it was anyone's guess.

"Fear the might of dwarves!" he hollered, and was about to go for another charge... when finally, finally, the villain took a step back, and inched towards the doorway. Having decided that fighting these weird children who were heroes-in-training wasn't worth it, perhaps?

Then without a word, the troll-man turned about. The thought of breaking through the front door was probably still fresh in his mind when the classroom door burst open inwards.

A swarm of hobbit-sized robots poured into the room: dozens upon dozens of little things made of iron and steel and blinking lights on wheels. But it was their demeanour that made them sound more like a group of children, chanting "arrest the villain" and "neutralize the criminal" all the way. It was all the villain could do to jump backward just before he was buried neck-deep in fun-sized robots.

The last robot of the horde made no funny sound. It did, however, made a pose, then pronounced a coherent, yet no less funny, announcement.

"My apologies, students!" bellowed the loudspeaker embedded on its chest. "Here's your Principal speaking! Everything is now under control!"

Ori glanced at Bilbo. "P-principal?"

Bilbo shuddered. "Will explain later, my dear sir!" he mouthed silently

Meanwhile the rest of the robot-army had surrounded the villain. Their pincer-hands crackled with electricity.

It was not over – at least for the villain. He roared like a beast wounded; down he hunched and braced himself. Off he went, charging into the mass of robots like a raging oliphaunt. The floor smoked. Bilbo smelled burnt rubber in the air.

There was a cacophony of smashes and small army of robots never stood a chance. Their zappers broke like twigs. They tumbled through the air like pebbles in a storm. Then they fell in heaps on the ground, clattering and shattering, like broken bricks.

The loudspeaker-bot was unfazed. Mostly.

"Oh dear," it said. "Looks like I underestimated you a mite." There was a sound suspiciously like a throat-clearing. "Dear student, it would be... good, if you run. Right now! The way behind me should be clear!"

The villain growled. "Not going to happen, you bolt-bucket!" he cried, and now dove towards the closest thing in his vicinity he could harm – which happened to be Bilbo himself.

Bilbo did the only thing he could do. He dove out of the villain's way and rolled towards the window. Not stopping for a breath, he grabbed the nearest chair as he sprang up, and hurled it through the glass. The crash was deafening – and so, so unseemly of a gentle-hobbit.

Necessary vandalism.

"All Might!" he hollered out of the hole at the top of his voice. "We're up here!"

Down below, All Might stopped. And looked up. "Young Midoriya!"

Their eyes met. Bilbo exhaled in relief.

In hindsight, that was the fifth error the otherwise most impeccable Mister Bilbo Baggins had committed in the space of perhaps half an hour...

Ochako had never been an argumentative sort.

Not, particularly, unless there was something worth arguing over. Whether or not to save what was undeniably a victim from certain death had never been among those things. The question had never been 'should we', but 'how fast'. Again, until today.

Part of her, that part still true to being heroic, was rightly appalled. What am I doing?

The real reason for her uncharacteristic stubbornness, of course, was a sudden realization: The creature was the pretty ring's previous owner. She did not know why she knew, just that she knew, and it was a malice-rousing sort of knowledge drowning out any protest citing 'heroism'.

No, something inside nudged at her, calling this thing an owner was a bit misleading. This beautiful, beautiful thing doesn't accept it as an owner. Nobody deserved to hold it, and especially not the misshapen, wretched, dirty, smelly, despicable thing lying there! Nobody deserved the rig's matchless splendor... nobody but herself. Nobody but Uraraka Ochako.

There can only be one to claim the Ring. And it certainly isn't that creature. Right? Right?

But that was not the very worst thought that arose, from those parts of Ochako too dark and evil to acknowledge.

He should just vanish. Shouldn't he? Shouldn't he?

But there it was, a cancer upon her innocence, festering and oozing like a gangrenous wound. Such thoughts swirled and bubbled inside Ochako's mind. The question of what she was even doing or why she was doing it rose like great wave in a storm.

When Ochako came to, she was standing next to the torture rack, looking straight down at the creature's form. Her hands felt the grimy texture, rusty and sweaty, of a carving knife now firmly held in her balled fist. When had she picked it up? No matter. It was sharp and jagged. A knife. Sharp and sweet. Is good.

Her consciousness snapped back, and Ochako felt like screaming out in horror at herself.

No! What... what am I doing?

She didn't scream. She couldn't scream. Stars were flashing in her eyes. Hammers were ringing in her head. A sort of thirst and hunger was taking hold, and yearning was blazing deep inside her.

Actually, yes.

The 'blade' trembled in her hands. All she needed to do was to raise it, raise it, raise it. And thrust. And there you have it.

But then Deku just had to jump into her path. He'd cut the wretched, dark thing from the rack, and – because he was Deku – seemed all but determined to carry it out with him.

And there it was, her other voice, dark and sultry and mesmerizing. Well, looks like there's only one thing to do now, isn't there?

Her hand wrapped tighter around the rusty, slimy blade. No!

Yes.

The tremble in her hand spread and coursed through her body.

Are you even a hero, Uraraka Ochako?

Yes. Yes you are.

So? Ochako bit down on her lip and tasted iron. Let's be done with it.

Her eyes went dull. Yes. Yes you're right. And then went animate again. Let's be done with it.

She closed her eyes once more.

Stab.

Splash.

Notes and fanon:

- Aaaand so Ochako murdered Deku, NICE BOAT, BAD END, game over, rip smol green cinnamon roll. /jk

- Given the fact that Toga Himiko exists, the idea of Ochako going a little knife-nut is quite... amusing.

- Glorfindel's company: I'm taking this from Third Age Total War. In one of its submods, Glorfindel gets his own company of bodyguards: Reincarnations of the House of Golden Flower.

- The chapter title refers more to Ochako than Izuku. Thanks to Kobasolo's very excellent cover, I've been associating Peace Sign with Ochako more than Izuku. This chapter, as it happens, is all about Ochako – or at least, the Middle-earth segment is.

- Drama dictates something should happen to Shouto for, well, acting on impulse in the last chapter. Now the Sports Festival arc is going to go wildly off the rail too!